Bend

Every time a new piece lands, we hold our breath. Wondering if that will be the one to break us. The metal warps, bends deep and creaks, but stays intact. Hanging on by metallic bonds. Strong and fragile all at once.

At the psychiatrist, I stare straight ahead. Talking out loud, but to no one. A doctor in a pencil skirt and heels sits just outside my peripheral vision. Our appointment runs twenty minutes over. When the talking stops she starts listing options. Hopeful. “I think we can figure something out here,” she says. Tells me how she’d like to coordinate with my doctor and my therapist. Get me on a prescription, get me into group therapy. I nod over and over again.

“I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me…”

Over the weekend Mase and I take a trip south. When we leave my parents’ house my mom says, “Finish your summer…” but can’t think of the right word to cap the sentence. I look over her shoulder and force another nod.

“Yeah. That’s it. Just finish it,” I say, taking a deep breath in. She hugs me again, I climb into our rental car, and Mason guides us out of the driveway.

Always here. Let me know if you need someone to sit in silence with you when you’re down south.

Sometimes I dance in nia with your mom. She is so, so beyond proud of you. She sees how hard you’re working.

I asked a friend who was struggling to make it earlier this year to knit me a hat. I received it in the mail yesterday. She’s still here. So just do one thing. A small project. You don’t have to commit to staying until you die at 89 years old, you don’t have to commit to 50, you don’t have to commit to 35 or the end of this year or the end of October. One step at a time, Ruby. Commit to right now. Just get through the minute, the hour, the day. And if you knit, then please knit me a hat.